


The Feast of House Fortemps

by Luciiferous



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Cannibalism, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 04:28:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17053133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luciiferous/pseuds/Luciiferous
Summary: "(...) when Ishgard welcomed its refugees, so many of them brought this practice into the city that it became impossible to fight against. Honoring the dead through feasting was now as common as entombing them, perhaps moreso.And as with all things Ishgardian, those who could afford to do so spared no expense in its extravagance."





	The Feast of House Fortemps

Funerary plans were held not quite in secret, but pointedly and purposefully out of sight from their foreign guests. While Haurchefant had been keen to share their practices with the world at large, this was, perhaps, a step too far-- and that even the Lord Commander agreed had put any notions of involving the Scions in this affair to rest.

Count Edmont leaned back heavily in his chair, sinking into the upholstery as if his bones were made of rebar and his skin stone, as firm and unshakable as the foundations of Ishgard herself. It was not a convincing facade, for all those in attendance had either seen or heard him wailing in grief just moments before; but politely, properly, they mentioned nothing of it.

“We should have him buried,” he said at length, voice rough with age and sorrow. “It is the Fortemps way, as it has been for centuries.”

“Centuries before the snow, perhaps,” argued Aymeric, who knew of his dear friend’s wishes perhaps better than anyone. Corentiaux, beside him, nodded emphatically. “But Haurchefant was a practical man, and a man of his people besides. He knew well the worth of a pound of flesh.”

Edmont’s eyes narrowed. “Such is not the way of the High Houses. Do you mean to insinuate my son deserves a poor man’s death, Ser Aymeric?” A barb about his bloodline-- that despite however he may feel about his own worth as a bastard, Haurchefant needn’t suffer the same penance-- hung heavy, though unspoken in the air.

Aymeric did not acknowledge it. “I mean to suggest a soldier’s rites, Lord Edmont. Surely he would be happiest to know his last gifts were to be spread and shared among his people, as opposed to rotting away slowly under ice.”

If Edmont grit his teeth, he did not show it but for the slight stiffening of his posture. But the silent fury in his eyes was given voice by his eldest son, who slammed a hand on his father's desk so hard that his palm tingled with pain.

“To see my brother butchered and served so, as if he were little more than a karakul for the slaughter-- I will not stand for it.” Artoriel stated with vehemence. Feeling as if he were on the losing side of this negotiation, he gestured to a figure near the back of the room, one nearly folded in half with grief. “What say you to this, Francel? Is this truly so common a practice on the frontlines?”

Francel did not,  _ could _ not answer. His eyes were wide and unseeing as he stared a thousand yards off into the wallpaper, a hand clasp over his mouth and tears streaming down his boyish cheeks. Instead, it was the piping voice of Honoroit which broke the silence.

“Lord Haurchefant… L-Lord Haurchefant gave his all for us, as he would've done for any man. I believe we should have the feast.” Looking directly, unflinchingly into Lord Edmont’s eyes he stated, “I ate my mother and my father both, as did my brothers. It is her kindness I carry with me, and his resolve… I would not wish to deny those closest to Haurchefant the same sense of closure their gifts brought me. My Lord.”

Emmanellain’s voice caught in his throat, breaking on his page’s name. “Honoroit…”

Relenting, at last, Edmont let the final thread of his resolve snap with not a shout but a sigh. “Do as you must,” he allowed, “if you are certain this is truly what he would've wanted. But we must keep this quiet. Not only for our name’s sake, but for the peace of mind their ignorance shall grant our guests.”

It was only then did Estinien seem to materialize from the Fortemps-red walls, stepping into view and speaking for the first time since setting foot in the room. “I shall see to preparations, then. It is best if we conduct this as swiftly as possible. Fasting should begin as soon as this meeting is adjourned, and all those closest to him invited.”

One by one the members of the assembly each nodded, rose and shuffled out, save for Lord Edmont himself. Aymeric had to sling an arm of Lord Francel’s over his shoulder to get him to stand, and even still he hung from him like a limpet, feet dragging along the bearskin rug with a clear reluctance to move. Edmont averted his gaze.

It was only when Artoriel paused with a hand upon the door frame, the last to leave, did he look up to meet his eldest son’s eyes. There was a hatred there that bordered on patricidal.

“Do not think me pleased by this, father,” he seethed. “Despite me going along with it.”

If Edmont meant to reply-- which he did not, for there was nothing to say-- Artoriel made it clear by slamming the door that it was not something he wanted to hear.

 

* * *

 

There was no one source for the practice’s origins.

Before the Calamity and its everlasting winter had gripped Coerthas, such rites were all but unheard of, practiced only in remote and struggling villages. It certainly had neither the prevalence nor the practicality it has come to embody in the years since.

As villages struggled to grow enough crops for both man and animal, farmlands were burned, the dravanians unaffected by the frost, the death toll rose ever higher as supplies across the lands dwindled unanimously. It had seemed to be a last resort at first, a practice which developed its ritualism over time rather than with intent. Pioneers making their way to the safety of Ishgard would fall, their remains picked over by their living kin who carried their memory within themselves, honored the sacrifice of their flesh and meat. Their bellies stayed full, their strength sustained to face another day upon the ice. And when Ishgard welcomed its refugees, so many of them brought this practice into the city that it became impossible to fight against. Honoring the dead through feasting was now as common as entombing them, perhaps moreso.

And as with all things Ishgardian, those who could afford to do so spared no expense in its extravagance. Within short order, skinning knives were commissioned with the House Fortemps crest featured prominently on the hilt; elegantly wrought gambrel hooks were brought in to the manor’s kitchen, wrapped in ceremonial silks and carried by clergy members. The butchering was carried out in full view of the culinarian staff, aided by anyone who wished to assist.

Though it was only a rumor, many of the guests who gathered and mingled outside spoke of how Count Edmont himself took up a knife with shaking hands and carved no more than a flank’s breadth before losing his composure.

Honoroit and Emmanellain had opted to gather herbs and vegetables from the Sea of Clouds, returning with armfuls of edible flowers, sweet-smelling grasses and hearty mushrooms, carrots and cabbages and just about anything Lady Laniaitte and her Rose Knights could load their airship full with. In addition, many of Camp Cloudtop’s residents flew back with them as guests, and the congregation of mourners were all the happier for their company. Even in death Haurchefant had a knack for bringing people together.

“He was such a lean man, I doubt there’s enough of him to go around,” Aymeric remarked wryly, earning him a strained chuckle from Lucia. He regarded her with no small amount of worry. Though she had seen many of these funerals take place, even fasted in preparation for them, she had partaken in none save one-- after which she retched and heaved so violently she had to be placed in the care of a chirurgeon. “Are you certain you wish to be here for this, Lucia? No one will think less of you for skipping out.”   


She met his worrisome gaze with one steely in its resolve. “Yes, my Lord, I am quite certain.” But despite the strength in her voice, she quickly averted her eyes, wringing her hands for want of a sword’s pommel to rest them upon. “Haurchefant was a… Dear friend. Of yours and mine. I cannot say I always valued the man’s company as much as I ought to’ve, but…”

“Such regrets aid nothing and benefit no one. Think not of the things you ought to have done, but rather the time and memories you  _ did _ share.” He gestured to the assembly with a sweep of his arm. “Haurchefant loved so many, I do not believe he would condemn you for your lack of company.”

Lucia smiled, privately, her face still turned towards the cobblestones. “Is that another subtle suggestion to take leave of you, my Lord?”

“Only if you want it to be.”

“I do not,” she answered. “I am committed to staying throughout the night.”

“Well, far be it from me to stop you.”

Within but a few short minutes, as the last rays of sunlight dipped below the mountain range, a hush fell over the group. One by one long trays of crockery were rolled out of the manor’s modest banquet hall, chased by the alluring scent of meat and spices. There were too many mouths to feed inside, too much that still needed to be cooked and not enough kitchen space to do so; so then were fires lit in every gazebo, from the manor to the Last Vigil, great pots and pans placed atop each, all serving some variation of stew in the same vein as Haurchefant used to make.

Aymeric, delighted with the tribute, laughed aloud as hungry guests flocked to their feast. If he noticed the way Lucia stiffened at the smell of roasting flesh, he said nothing of it.

“He always did love hot pots,” he reflected, but it was not Lucia’s scoff that answered him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be eating with the family?” Estinien asked, stepping into the space Lucia had apparently since vacated. If Aymeric strained, he could see her winding her way timidly towards a platter of seared loin cuts.

“I was not sure if that was an appropriate gesture--”

Estinien snorted, shoving his shoulder against Aymeric’s back in an attempt to urge him forward. In plain clothes, he lacked the deadly spikes that would’ve prevented such a friendly gesture. “You know as well as I that that’s nonsense. They’re waiting on us.”

And so they were. All remaining members of House Fortemps rose to greet them as they arrived, and ravenous guests with plates and bowls loaded high looked on-- perhaps a bit impatiently, as the cold was biting and their food not warm for long-- for Count Edmont to lead them in grace.

“May you bless us, O Goddess of Fury,” he began in a voice that did not tremble, but felt wooden for the strain of it. “And these, the gifts of Thy child, which we are about to receive. May we each partake in the strength, the courage and resilience that your lo--” at last, the timbre of his voice breaks apart, rejoining in a crumbled and broken waver; “your loyal knight and most ardent follower has bestowed upon us all.”

He then sat, hurriedly, with only enough composure to prevent it from being called a collapse. It was a short speech, one could say impersonal if not for the emotion behind his words, but it got the job done. Those invited to sit at the main table dutifully took their places, and as if causing a ripple effect throughout the crowd others began to follow-- sitting on stools brought for the occasion, on dining chairs relocated, banisters and benches and even the ground itself. Haurchefant’s name was on everyone’s lips, and his flesh on each plate, in the broth and the beer and the bellies of those who loved him. Some sang, others wept. Many, many laughed with Haurchefant’s good humor.

To the head of the table was brought the crown jewel of the feast-- a warmed but still bloodied heart, cut into four equal halves. Lord Edmont, sobbing with his grief, could not bare to divide the sacred organ amongst his sons and Honoroit; thus Artoriel did so for him, wearing a grim and terrible look. It was only when he raised his own portion to his lips did his expression waver, and Aymeric looked away before it could collapse into sorrow, affording him even a small amount of privacy.

Across the table, Francel choked on a terrible sob before taking his roasted foreshank in hand and raising it to his lips.

As honored guests, Aymeric and Estinien had not the virtue of choosing their own dishes-- one would be selected for them, appropriate for their relationship to the dearly departed. As a platter was set before the Lord Commander, he could not entirely discern what cut of meat it was. Something lean and savoury smelling, smoked over coals and charred lightly at its ends. Fresh chysahl greens accented the plate’s colouring, and roasted cherry tomatoes were split almost in the shape of hearts.

Estinien was handed a tongue.

Placing a hand to his mouth, Aymeric tried his best not to laugh too loudly. Estinien simply regarded the organ with a flat stare.

“A tongue to loosen yours, I suspect.”

Another scoff answered him, though Estinien did move to pick up his utensils. “I will not miss his sense of humor.”

“Who chose these arrangements, do you know?”

“Not a clue,” Estinien said around a mouthful of chewy meat and tried hard not to think about its implications, symbolic or otherwise.

It was then that Honoroit gestured to him, indicating a plate of popotoes he wanted passed down-- and when Aymeric moved to hand them over, he leaned in conspiratorially, whispering, “it was Lord Artoriel who chose the dishes. He protests, but… I know he honored his mother in the same method.”

Shocked, Aymeric had nothing to say back to the boy; but that was of little concern to him. Placing a finger to his lips, he then turned away, re-engaging in whatever conversation a teary-eyed Emmanellain was trying to hold whilst spooning a heaping of popotoes onto his platter.

Leaning back in his seat, the Lord Commander muttered a “hm,” followed by a thoughtful, “then he, too…”

“What?” Estinien asked. He had moved some of his tongue to Aymeric’s plate while he had been distracted, stealing a cut of what he could only assume was brisket.

“Nothing,” Aymeric replied. He speared the fatty chunk of tongue with his fork, raising it to Estinien almost like a mock toast. “To our dear friend.”

The Dragoon raised a bit of his stolen meat in reply. “To his shit taste, but excellent flavor.”

Their combined laughter rang loudly and unrestrained, muffling any sobs or cries of anguish around them.

**Author's Note:**

> welp.


End file.
